


Forgetting Someone?

by catstrophysics



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Chapter retelling, Gen, Not tagged to the ship intentionally, though could be read that way if one desires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:14:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26609611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catstrophysics/pseuds/catstrophysics
Summary: A modern retelling of 4.1.6, Enjolras and His Lieutenants.
Relationships: Enjolras & Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 18
Collections: 2020 Brick ReNouveauTions





	Forgetting Someone?

**Author's Note:**

> As always, the world's largest possible thank you to [lupercaliia](https://lupercaliia.tumblr.com/tagged/my-art), both for her companion art to this work and for... everything else. And a second thanks to [ShitpostingfromtheBarricade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShitpostingfromtheBarricade/pseuds/ShitpostingfromtheBarricade) for creating and hosting this event!

They were just as loud as always, voices overlapping and tumbling out the windows of the Musain in clashing, cheerful bursts. The sun had burned off all the morning mist already, summer demanding and discordant over the Parisian streets. Their chatter was more fervent than usual, an acrid note of concern twanging over their voices. Enjolras had pulled them together that day with a mass text of “Musain, 11:00.” and all but Marius had shown—a testament to Enjolras as much as a testament to the students’ desire to know what was going on. 

The tension in the air sang along his nerves. A handful of days out, and too many pieces of his great puzzle still lay scattered across Paris. He’d whipped himself into a frenzy quickly this morning, shirtsleeves rolled up past his elbows unevenly and a third cup of coffee half-finished at his hip. On an average day, he was good with words. Today, he was electric, and the attention of his peers clung to him before. 

He hefted himself onto the table, tucking one leg under himself for balance, and the room fizzled down to a dull rumble, the last peals of laughter swallowed. 

Enjolras allowed himself a moment to appreciate the people before him, pulled from their dozens of walks of life to be _here, _for _this._ He cleared his throat, picturing his page of scribbled-down notes before launching bodily into speaking. “We’ve done so much, everyone, and really, that’s great”—a quiet cheer came from the corner, and he felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth—“but as of now, the only people we’re _certain_ will be there on Tuesday is us.” An enthusiastic, sweeping hand gesture half-unrolled his sleeves, and forced his friends to glance guiltily around. “It’s no good having the strongest cause in the world if there aren’t enough of us, is it?” __

___Nearly out of time._ That thought had kept him up the night before, staring alternately at the ceiling and the list of student organizations in their university, circled and crossed-out and highlighted into unrecognizability. They were too few, and the days were too short. Certainly, they had their own connections—from classes and meeting each other on the street and an unfortunate incident (or five) of Bossuet locking himself out of his flat—but they didn’t seem enough anymore. _ _

__“We’re pressed for time, and hey, changing the world’s urgent enough, so”—he clapped once, hard, and the room collectively jolted—“to work.”_ _

__There was a general shifting of attention inwards as he propped himself up on the table and reached for his coffee. Half the students looked disinterested, tired of morning gatherings in the campus’s cramped coffee shop, packed into the corner by the front window, and the other half simply looked tired._ _

__Still, it was for a good cause. _Right?_ _ _

__“The students of this campus are restless, the same as us. They want to rally, to pull together, to enact _change._ ” He heard his voice rising, the itch in his legs to stand up and assert his faith unmistakable. With a hint of chagrin, he forced the desire away. “There’s no time to waste, my friends, so let’s get moving.” _ _

__His fingers twitched towards his phone, aching for the comfort of a typed-out list of which man he’d send to each organization, but they’d been burned into his thoughts anyhow. Their last ditch effort, really, because what was left after their fellow students? He shook his head hard, forcing the thoughts away. _They care. They’ll come._ _ _

__Somehow, the doubt lingered, a dark hue daubed with a thick brush across the burning, confident red he fought too hard to preserve._ _

__“Courfeyrac,” he said, his friend’s name nearly choked out in an attempt to wrest his thoughts away from the _what-ifs_ and back to the present. A bouncy curl flopped in his eyes as he looked at Enjolras, expression warm and open. It soothed some small concern in him for a moment, and he continued. “You’ll drop in on the polytech students; they’re all in the city today, you’ll know where to find them, yeah?” He searched the room for Feuilly next, and found his fading t-shirt-clad figure leaned against the doorjamb, dark, heavy lines around his eyes but an ease about him nonetheless. _ _

__One by one, he assigned sectors of the campus, friends acknowledging him with single nods, smiles, and, in one case, Bahorel’s jaunty thumbs-up._ _

__Courfeyrac stood up with a stretch as he wrapped up, shirt ridden up to show his stomach. “That’s all, then, eh?”_ _

__Enjolras shook his head. The blank spot on the list, question-marked in his notes and an empty patch in his mind, marched to the forefront of his thoughts. “Not quite.”_ _

__“What else is left?”_ _

__He frowned. “Something _important._ The Barriére du Maine.” Saying it made it too real, nearly, a reminder of a gaping tear in his great plan. “The artists there—painters and sculptors and whatnot—they’re…” he sucked in a breath, searching for a word. “ _Enthusiastic_ , in nature.” A quiet laugh rippled through the room, and his brows drew into a scowl. _ _

__“Weeks before, we were reassured they’d join us at the protest, but since then, nothing. Last I heard, all their time went to dominoes.” A quick, hot wave of annoyance swept over him—this wasn’t a _game_. This was a _movement,_ and the artists had struck a nerve with him when their attention waned. _ _

__“Anyhow, they’ll be at the tavern in around an hour, and someone ought to remind them that they agreed to come support. I’d’ve sent Marius, but he’s left us, it seems permanently.” His annoyance at Marius’s desertion had waned, settling into a twisting doubt he’d never encountered before. _Perhaps he was the first of you, a rat deserting the Titanic, a premonition of what’s to come. Should I be afraid? _“Who will go to them?”___ _

____The students murmured among themselves, some glancing under the edge of the table to check cell phones for an end time. They were disinterested, he saw—hands tucked in sweatshirt pockets, eyes cast away from him, a haze of homework and commitments and Netflix binges hanging just behind a facade of investment._ _ _ _

____“We need their support. One of us—I’d thought about myself, but they rather look down on political science—needs to visit them, and today, if possible.” Enjolras looked around. Everyone had an assignment already, and he… they didn’t _dis_ like political science, just found it rather ridiculous. _ _ _ _

____Someone cleared their throat, and he turned to watch Grantaire stand up, hooking his thumbs through his belt loops. “Forgetting someone?”_ _ _ _

____He hadn’t been forgetting Grantaire. More pretending he wasn’t there, pretending he couldn’t feel smirking brown eyes on the back of his head. _Pretending Grantaire wasn’t_ Grantaire. _ _ _ _

____“I’m right here, Enjolras,” he prodded, gesturing to himself._ _ _ _

____“Not you.”_ _ _ _

____Grantaire’s expression dropped for a split second before rebounding into defiance. “Yes, me.”_ _ _ _

____It burned to look at him, the sting of Grantaire’s open disregard for the cause coupled with something _else_ that he seldom let himself acknowledge. “Send _you_ to catch their interest again? Send _you,_ when the artists are already disenchanted?” _ _ _ _

____Annoyingly, he shrugged. “Sure, why not?”_ _ _ _

_____Why not?_ “Is there _anything_ you’re good for?” It was cruel, he heard it, but Grantaire shrugged it off. _ _ _ _

____“Might be, someday.” His grin infuriated Enjolras, smug and laughing and—did he not _understand?_ _ _ _ _

____“You believe in nothing.”_ _ _ _

____“ _I_ believe in _you._” _ _

__He was joking. He had to be joking, another quick comeback he’d forget about within a matter of minutes. But an earnestness hung in his eyes for a moment, a baring of the soul too often concealed behind drunken jokes, and he reached towards it._ _

__“Grantaire, can you do something for me?”_ _

__Surprise turned his expression apprehensive as he said, “Anything.” It seemed too good to be true. Then, a cynical twist rankled his mouth. “ _Anything_ at _all_.” _ _

__It had been too good to be true, another one of his damn _jokes._ “Go home and sleep off your hangover, I’ll deal with it.” _ _

__Grantaire whistled through his teeth, rocking back on his heels. “Ungrateful much? Said I’d do it, y’know. Wasn’ lying.”_ _

__“I—you—still, why would I send you?” It wasn’t quite clear if he wanted Grantaire to give him a real reason. He didn’t suppose it needed to be clear,_ _

__“I know the way.” He gestured towards the street, the same . “Two lefts, a right, and another left, and Richefeu’s is the one with the art students hanging out in it.”_ _

__“You checked that on Google Maps.” Grantaire didn’t respond for a moment, blushed slightly, and Enjolras felt vindicated that he’d pushed Grantaire back off-balance. He savored the moment, before: “Do you know them well?”_ _

__He shook his head. “Had one or two in a class, but otherwise… bricks in the wall.” He said it as though Enjolras should understand his meaning, though he didn’t, and he didn’t push._ _

__“Do you know what we’re protesting for?”_ _

__“Women’s rights, yeah? That whole voting thing?” His joke— _God willing, it was a joke_ —elicited a round of quiet laughter, silenced with a single, heated glance from Enjolras. Grantaire, still, hung smug and self-assured, and Enjolras saw red. _ _

__“For _once_ in your life, be serious.” He pushed himself free of the table, standing to challenge Grantaire, who stared back levelly, jestingly. _ _

__“Nope,” he replied, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I’m wild.”_ _

__Enjolras didn’t reply for a long, just leaned back against the table and stared out the panel window onto the street. Then—_ _

__“Fine. You’ll go.” Grantaire jokingly blew him a kiss, and Enjolras caught himself flinching as Grantaire headed for the front door. “What are you doing?”_ _

__“Won’t be a moment,” Grantaire tossed out, raising a hand as he pushed through the door, sending bells jingling as it slammed back shut._ _

__Enjolras couldn’t tear his eyes away as Grantaire walked down the pavement, hands stuffed uncaringly in his pockets and looking for all the world as though Enjolras’s hope didn’t rest on his shoulders._ _

__He rather doubted that he even knew._ _

____

***

His heart hadn’t stopped pounding since he left the Musain, blood thrumming through his ears and adrenaline sweet on his tongue. _Enjolras trusts me._ The thought was laughable, really, the greatest joke he’d ever been told, and the dismissal thrown over his faith cemented it. In truth, he’d left in a haze, and found himself at the corner of his street before his thoughts managed to pull back together from the glint of faith Enjolras had placed in him.

It was summer, still, and the sun beat down as he hastened home, still on autopilot. The sun was too strong for a jacket by layman’s scales, but he climbed the stairs to his flat, jimmied the key in the door, and shouldered it open with a groan of water-damaged wood. 

A flash of red caught his eye, and his scattered thoughts connected the color to _Enjolras is in my flat_ before the shape resolved into his jacket, slung over a peg on the wall for God-knows-how-many months. 

“That’ll do,” he said, scooping his excuse for running home up in one hand and checking his phone with the other. 

His mind whirled as he walked back, setting a brisk pace and, for the first time, allowing excitement into his step. The Musain’s hanging sign came into view, and he slowed to a walk, pulling his phone from his pocket and grinning inwardly at a lone message from Bossuet: a row of question marks. 

He shook his head as he pulled the door open, and Enjolras’s eyes burned into him immediately.

***

It had been a long five minutes after Grantaire’s disappearance. The room had, by and large, been stunned into casual conversation, casting uneasy looks at Enjolras when they thought he wasn’t looking. He spent much of the time watching out the window, holding half a conversation with Combeferre regarding a Change.org petition they were organizing for women’s rights—reproductive, not voting, thank you very much.

He was the first, then, to see Grantaire appear, jarring in a glaringly red bomber jacket. It was warm out, too warm for long sleeves—never mind Enjolras wore them, too, rolled up to his elbows and pretending it wasn't still summer—but he appeared unfazed. As he approached the window, he slowed down, and looked as though he had taken his assignment to heart, and Enjolras felt his whole body stiffen as he casually swung the door open. 

Grantaire came closer, pausing a foot away from Enjolras’s table. “Red,” he said, gesturing at himself before flicking his gaze back up consideringly. He caught the zipper of the jacket easily, and pulled it halfway up his chest, stepping closer until Enjolras found himself leaning back on the table, looking anywhere but at Grantaire. In the space of a heartbeat, Grantaire leaned close to whisper: “Chill, man.” He pulled back quickly, eyes half-shut, and the furthest thing from his mind was _chilling_. 

Then, Grantaire turned, cast a last, loaded glance to Enjolras, and left, the bells clanging brightly in his wake.


End file.
